


Earl Grey

by acosmist_t



Series: Draco Malfoy One Shots [15]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Apartment AU, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, F/M, Fluff, Kissing, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:13:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29016396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acosmist_t/pseuds/acosmist_t
Summary: It started with a migraine and an insufferable piano player. It ended on a couch with two cold cups of Earl Grey.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Reader
Series: Draco Malfoy One Shots [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2020781
Kudos: 27





	Earl Grey

**Author's Note:**

> Word Count: 4.7k
> 
> Warnings: fluff, light kissing at the end, briefly drunk character, a roach

If there was one thing you had ever appreciated, it was an evening to yourself. A night with only a warm cup of tea, your cat brushing against your calves, and silence. Only peace, nobody else to bother you with reality.

And for a moment, you had all three of those things. All three of those blissfully tranquil things. But moments were always too short, cut off before you could step forward and truly live in them. They were blips of time that you could only miss the minute they left you behind.

You missed the precise minute that moment left you immediately. And then you cursed yourself for not savoring it as well as you should have. Because yes, you had your cat—Cosimo, you had named him in a brief hyperfixation on stars—and you did have that steaming cup of Earl Grey. The silence, however, seemed to be notably absent.

In its place, piano.

It wasn’t an instrument you hated—actually, you always wished you learned to play. But right now, with the blinding migraine you had gotten from your chatty coworker talking your ear off all day, you really did miss your silence.

You hadn’t met your new neighbor yet, and you had no plans to. If they could be living in your apartment building for all of two months and you already knew their favorite pieces by heart, then you had no urge to know them. Not when they continuously took away your silence.

And just because of that stupid, irritating, chatty coworker and the stupid, irritating, _blinding_ migraine she gave you, you stood up. You took all the steps required to get to your shared wall—unfortunately, the same wall that the head of your bed laid against—and raised your hand to it. And then, as eloquently as you could manage, you pounded your fist.

It echoed throughout your room, making your bookcase shake, but you didn’t let up. Not until Brahms’ Waltz did the same. Thankfully, your neighbor seemed to get the message, and the notes stopped abruptly, hanging off the measure, waiting to be finished. And you swore to Merlin that if they hit that third beat, you wouldn’t hesitate to break down the wall.

Silence was finally achieved.

You sighed, rolling your neck, before returning to your kitchen, where your cooling tea was waiting. Cosimo joined on the barstool next to you, and you focused on how perfect the evening became.

Tea, cat, silence.

No more neighbor.

  
  


━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

  
  


There was a piece of parchment waiting for you when you woke up. A scrap of something used, torn roughly like the person ripping it only had so much left to spare. 

You unfolded it quickly, blinking a few times at the message.

.

_Dear Whoever Resides in Apartment 4B,_

_I must apologize for my lack of manners when it comes to my playing. Your very strong opinion did slip through the wall last night, and if I had known you felt so passionately, I would have tried to accommodate your quite early sleep schedule sooner._

_Please allow me to remediate my mistake with a cup of coffee. It is the least I can do._

_Sincerely,_

_Your (regrettably) Musically Inclined Neighbor in 4C_

.

  
  


You snorted, somehow amused with the message. No, you wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of a cup of coffee. But what you would do is leave them a message in response.

.

_Dear My (not regrettably, only ill-timed) Musically Inclined Neighbor in 4C,_

_Slight correction: I was not trying to sleep last night, and if you really cared, I was battling an awful migraine. I’m not sure if you knew this, but hearing the same Waltz so often that it is reverberating in my eardrums long after you stop playing is no balm._

_I will also be declining your offer of coffee. It tends to worsen those migraines. All I ask is that you cut off your playing time to something more reasonable. Five, perhaps?_

_My sincerest hope that you listen,_

_Your Neighbor in Apartment 4B_

.

You moved quickly, sliding your note under their door before finding the lifts. You were nearly late for your job and your boss would not enjoy you missing work because of a neighborly dispute.

Call it paranoia, but you were almost anxious to see your neighbor’s response. And it didn’t leave your mind all day, a buzzing mosquito as you sped through mindless actions, curiosity plaguing you. However, just for your own sake, you stopped at a coffee shop on your way back to your apartment, telling yourself that it was just hesitance—not excitement—as you purchased another cup of tea.

Leeching that warmth, you allowed yourself to hurry home. And to your definitely-not-great delight, another note awaited you, the same ripped paper as the first time. You opened it with nimble fingers, barely locking your door behind you while you took it in.

.

_Dear My Most Exciting Friend in 4B,_

_Another apology. Can I suggest tea, in that case? I’ve seen your trash—I fear you may run yourself broke with the quantity you buy and at the rate you consume it. And that Waltz you speak so poorly about is actually a favorite of mine, so I do take offense._

_Maybe you can make it up to with...let’s say...a cup of tea? And you should also make up for that absolutely appalling recommendation you made. Five in the evening? Really? What am I expected to do after that?_

_You’re rubbish at suggestions,_

_Your Even More Exciting Friend in 4C_

.

Your face flushed, an inkling of mortification multiplying enough to drown you. You can’t possibly drink _that_ much tea, could you?

You clicked your tongue, reaching for a clean piece of parchment (maybe it would teach them a lesson), and wrote your reply.

.

_My New Friend,_

_There is a plethora of things to do past the hour of five in the evening. You could clean, or cook, or work. I’m sure you can figure it out._

_And to answer your question: no, I must decline your second offer. I am not in the business of drinking tea with random people I’ve never met before._

_I didn’t try to suggest anything,_

_Your Begrudging Friend in 4B_

.

You crept to their door slowly, afraid they might open it and catch you lurking. You slid the paper under the door, then spun and ran back to the safety of your apartment.

Unfortunately, fate had no plans for your attempt at sneakiness to be anywhere near successful, because as you pushed your door open, your shoulder caught on the doorframe. You groaned loudly at the impact, but picked yourself up as you heard a chain sliding on your neighbor’s door. The floor caught you as you fell into your apartment, slamming the door behind you, then pressing your back up against it.

You pushed the heels of your palms into your eyes, embarrassment growing by the second, because it’s not like they could have missed the scene you just made.

And indeed, a soft chuckle filtered under the gap. It was warm, comforting, distinctly...male?

“Oh, Merlin,” you muttered to yourself. Had you been flirting with him the whole time?

Irrelevant. You heard a second laugh, low and almost enticing. Like you wouldn’t quite mind finding the source. They— _he_ —must be humoring you, playing a little game with you, all because you pounded on the wall.

Then, another thought flashed through your mind: _What if he wrote back?_ Because if he wrote back, then he would be sliding a new letter under your door, and if he were sliding a new letter under your door, he would be sliding a new letter right into your crouched body, blocking said door.

You scrambled up, desperately trying not to make any further noise. And right on time, a piece of _your_ parchment passed under the gap, and you bit your lip to stop yourself from looking through the peephole, needing to know who Mystery Man was.

He—unsurprisingly—tore off a scrap from your paper, writing something short and sweet on it; no names or salutations used.

.

_If you wanted to meet me so bad, you could have just said something_.

  
  


━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

  
  


You woke to the sound of someone banging on your door, fighting the lock to get in. There was a voice on the other end, loud and clearly drunk.

“Let me in, you bastard. It’s fucking freezing out here.” You could discern it as female, but nothing else was distinguishable. 

You got up, decidedly not caring about your personal safety at such an indecent hour, and made your way to the front door. You could see the doorknob twisting, whoever was on the other side resolute on entering. Fear suddenly formed a pit in your stomach, and you grabbed a large chef’s knife, knowing fully well you had no clue how to wield it.

Then, you padded to the door, body tense; your hand trembled as you reached for the chain, pulling it from its fastening, and then twisting the lock to open, bracing yourself.

What you were not expecting was the door pushing open without waiting, a girl about your age stumbling in, a pair of heels in her hand.

It was too dark to see much, and she squinted as she found your couch, promptly dropping her shoes and falling onto it. She murmured, “Thanks,” before closing her eyes and falling asleep.

You stood there in shock, not sure what to do with the wavering knife still in your hand and the foreign presence now occupying your couch. “Erm...hello?” you tried, taking a few conscious steps forward.

The eyes flashed open, making you think the girl was not as unconscious as you previously thought. She took you in quickly, scanning up and down your body, confusion contorting her features. “You’re new.”

“I live here. There’s nothing new about me.”

The girl’s face twisted even more, and you watched her roll your words around in her mouth. “Live...here? No...no, I got the right number this time. I know I did. Where’s...where’s Draco?”

“Who’s Draco—no, who are _you_?”

She sat up, nausea clouding her expression, and you silently prayed she wouldn’t vomit all over your couch. “‘M Pansy,” she mumbled. “Pansy Parkinson. And how do you not know who Draco is? You don’t look like the type of girl to forget who they’re fucking-”

You held up your hands, stopping her from continuing. “I am not fucking _anybody_ right now.”

“You sure look like you could use it.”

You bristled, shaking it off. “Where do you think you are? Can I call someone?”

Pansy opened her mouth to say something, but another voice sounded out, coming from the corridor. You clenched your eyes as the pieces started to click.

“Pans? Pansy? Is that you?” The voice got closer—your _neighbor_ got closer. Your musically inclined neighbor who you had ignored for the past two nights. You felt him stop in your threshold, the door wide open for him.

“What- Who-” You spun, not knowing who to focus on first: the half-lucid girl on your couch, or the random man who was currently staring into your living room. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Can I come in? That’s my friend.” Mystery Man—Draco, you assumed—pointed to the sofa, Pansy looking around deliriously from it.

She perked up at that, jaw dropping. “I did it again, didn’t I?” She brought her hand over her eyes, collapsing dramatically back to the cushions. “Every single time.”

That familiar chuckle flooded your ears, and you faced him again. “Of course, come in.”

Draco smiled, approaching you slowly, then crouching in front of Pansy, peering at her. “Every single time,” he repeated back.

She groaned, pushing herself to a sitting position. You put your arms out as she wavered, but Draco was already there. You flinched back as your hand brushed his, then chided yourself because of how absolutely juvenile you must seem. 

Pansy started to stand, still uncoordinated, and slurred, “I really thought I had the number right this time. Like I _really_ -”

You silenced her. “Don’t worry about it. I trust she’s going to stay with you,” you fixed your gaze to Draco. The idea of a drunk girl on her own made something prickle in your blood.

Draco nodded surely, his oddly-platinum hair glinting in the moonlight flooding through your windows. “She’s my best friend.”

You took that as enough, walking the two of them back to the door and out into the corridor. Draco opened his door for her, letting Pansy scrabble for purchase on the wall as he turned back to you. He smiled, and the sudden lighting showed you a face that was quite attractive. Much more than you expected.

“You didn’t answer my letter,” he drawled, leaning against the wall. “I’m hurt.”

You bit your cheek. “Well, I met you anyway, didn’t I?”

“The sting is still there. You even admitted you were my friend. I thought that was progress.”

“I’m sure you would’ve lived. You’ve didn’t even know who I was.” You began turning to your apartment, unsure of how you would fall back asleep after the whole ordeal you just witnessed. Partook in.

Draco’s grin only grew. “I’ve seen you before. And that damned cat likes to crawl through my window sometimes. I don’t understand how he even gets onto the balcony—and jumping across them? So dangerous.”

Your eyes widened. “He _what_? Oh, Merlin, he’s going to get himself killed. I’m so sorry about him; Cosimo thinks that the nine lives rule actually applies, even four stories up.”

“Don’t apologize. At least he can appreciate my piano, unlike _some_ people.” He looked you up and down, reference clear.

“I’m only unappreciative of _your_ piano when it increases _my_ migraines. It’s not my fault you were so sensitive.”

“Me? Sensitive? You must be mistaken. I was distraught, more than anything, but you seemed to solve that.”

“How so?”

“Because you told me you enjoyed my music other times,” he replied proudly.

You stood straighter, narrowing your eyes. “That was only implied, not actually said.”

“Implicit, explicit—I could care less. But don’t worry, because now I owe you a gift for my gratitude. A cup of tea, maybe?”

You snorted, going back inside your apartment, door almost shut when you spoke. “In your dreams.”

And with that, you went back to your bed.

  
  


━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

  
  


Contrary to your statement just hours before, Draco seemed to be the one invading _your_ dreams.

His face was imprinted across your eyelids, invading your thoughts at every blink. It was his white-blond hair, and his grey eyes, and his oddly endearing smile. You had seen for only a handful of minutes, but you felt every inch of those few letters in that span of time.

You almost wanted to see him again. Or maybe be his friend.

And that’s the thought that carried with you the entire day. And then another question sidled in beside it.

_Why?_

You didn’t forget. Your mind searched for some sort of explanation for that attachment, but came up with nothing. He was just right next door—the potential for a new connection, a new relationship to ease the boredom. Chatty coworkers no longer sufficed.

And it only got worse when you found a new note had been slipped under your door while you had been at work. You picked it up, still finding entertainment that Draco couldn’t find a single scrap of untouched parchment. Giddiness bloomed in your chest, and you cursed yourself.

.

_Dear My Friend Who I Still Managed to Not Get the Name of,_

_I must formally apologize yet again for last night. That was the first time Pansy has been to this apartment. You see, I move around quite a bit—staying in the same place always bothered me. I can tell you more about it over a cup of tea._

_And if you haven’t noticed, I did keep my playing to a minimum. More progress._

_Still waiting for that Earl Grey,_

_Draco_

.

You folded it back up, placing it into the small bin where you had started keeping his letters. You had been letting it go when you felt a different texture. A bit of thick material taped to the back of the parchment.

You flipped it over. Cosimo’s sleeping face greeted you. On top of an upright piano. _Draco’s_ upright piano. There was another scribble of context:

 _I think he likes me_.

  
  


━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

  
  


The letters increased. No physical contact, rather words spoken through ink and fibers of paper. They were simple things; reminders and notes and inside jokes formed over that unspoken, yet so loud, connection.

Sometimes, you’d get pictures of Cosimo. Sometimes, you’d get pictures of Draco. Sometimes, you’d send pictures of yourself.

It became habit. You got your wish, he was your friend, but now you were greedy. Because now you wanted more. You only caught flashes of him on his way to his own job, and he only got flashes of you, feet swift as they brought you in and out of the corridor. Habit and patterns and something strangely domestic.

You had been ruminating about it, trying to pick out what had started to shift, when you saw it: a roach. The size of your thumb. Staring across from you on the far wall.

Needless to say, you screamed.

Insects, roaches, any sort of small animal or rodent—they scared you. And Cosimo wasn’t here to deal with it because he had started taking more frequent leaves with one Draco Malfoy in Apartment 4C. 

You eventually learned his last name, after two weeks of begging for more information. Especially after he learned all about yours.

And then the demon started flying, and you screamed again. Bloody murder, that’s what you were screaming, because there was a fucking murderer the size of your fucking thumb flying around your fucking room.

You ran, narrowly avoiding the three-inch beast, hoping to find some sort of salvation in the kitchen, or maybe the living room, or maybe your knight in shining armor was the source of the sudden banging on your door.

You heard your name being called. Familiar. But the roach flew after you, and the next thing you knew, you were fumbling with torturous locks and sticky bolts as you fought with your front door. You finally got it open, yanking it away and attempting to find safety in the corridor.

Instead, you were met with a wall.

No, not a wall. A chest. A heaving chest. Warm and moving and _alive_. Draco caught you, pulling you behind him as he stared at your apartment. He was waiting for the murderer who was doing the murdering to come out. The source of your screams.

“What is it?” He was shaking you. “Is there someone in there?”

Your heart ran miles and marathons in your throat, and then cleared up as you saw the distressed look on his face. “R-roach,” you stuttered, feeling the fear shrink down again. Feeling rather stupid, actually.

Draco looked angry. He looked like he was about to scream at you, maybe yell for being so idiotic. But then, he shifted. A laugh burst out of him, loud and booming in your ears.

You shoved away from the arms around you, your cheeks flushing. “It was going to _kill_ me, Draco. What was I supposed to do? Stay quiet?”

“It’s a _roach_ . It can’t hurt you. I thought you were being fucking killed, and it was a _roach_.”

You were going to retort, to support your case that roaches were little demons sent from hell, but then you caught a glimpse of it flying past you. It moved right in the space between you and Draco, mere centimeters from your nose, landing on the wall across from your door.

You screamed one last time, grabbing onto him like some sort of shield. “See? It’s fucking _huge_.”

Draco bit his lip to hold back the laughter. Then, slowly slipped his shoe off, careful not to scare the bug off. And before you could hide some more, he hit the sole to the exact spot the bug was sitting.

Sat. It was more than dead now.

You would’ve screamed again if he didn’t hold his hand over your mouth, muffling it.

“Scream one more time,” he said, breathing still a little uncontrolled. “Scream one more time, and you’re next.”

“Asshole,” you muttered as his hand left, but couldn’t help the smile on your face. The grin, more like it.

Draco looked at the bottom of the shoe in his hand. Wrinkled his nose at it. “I needed new ones anyway.”

You laughed, a giggle coming from somewhere far and childish. “Thank you for your sacrifice. It means a lot.” You turned back to your room, watching it carefully. You didn’t want to go back in there. There could be _more_. Maybe an infestation, an invasion of your home and-

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” he sighed, exasperated, but there was a matching grin hidden in the tone. “You can stay with me—just the couch, don’t worry. Go get your stuff.”

You looked at him, then your open apartment, then back. “What if I see another one? What if it touched my clothes and my things and-”

You were fucked. Because you had no issue sleeping on Draco’s sofa. Except for the fact that everything required a deep cleaning before you even considered touching it.

Draco sighed again, giving in. “What do you need? Tell me and I’ll get it.”

You stared at him a moment. Smiling. Then, you gave him a list. Every location and description of your clothes and keys and important belongings. He shook his head at each one, cursing you slightly, but never dropping that quirking of his lips.

And he listened. You watched from the doorway, eyes peeled for any more demons—roaches, you meant—and making sure nothing else came and attacked him. He grumbled through it all, finally entering your bedroom to get the last of the clothes, your keys with it.

When he came back, you lifted your bag out of his hand, his height making it look tiny. “Thank you,” you said, letting him lock the door and bring you to his own apartment.

“It’s a bit of a mess right-”

“Shut it, Malfoy. You just saved me from a cockroach, you have no need to be embarrassed by the state of your home.”

Another warm chuckle spread heat through your veins. He opened the door, and you couldn’t hold back your excitement at seeing a new piece of him. You wasted no time in walking in, taking in everything there was. If this was his definition of dirty, you didn’t want to think of what he thought of your room.

There were a few books out, a jumper hanging over the arm of the couch, but everything else was spotless. Modern, clean, spacious. You couldn’t help yourself as you ambled through it, watching with wide eyes as he moved to the sofa, picking up the sweater.

“Will this be fine?” he asked, tracking you as you observed the large living room and connecting kitchen.

“It’s perfect. Thank you.”

He smiled, and you thought that he ought to be painted. A work of art. Everything was perfect.

Draco moved to the kitchen, pulling out an old kettle, telling you, “Bathroom’s through there”—he pointed off somewhere—“go ahead and change, I’m exhausted.”

You nodded, walking in the direction he indicated, entering an even nicer bathroom. But your heart stopped as you opened your bag.

“Bastard!” you yelled, feeling that resulting chuckle float through the air. He didn’t get anything you asked for; you were left with lace items, all lingerie you hadn’t worn in months. You swallowed your pride, or maybe embraced it, as you slipped it on.

He had meant to humiliate you, a small bit of payback for sending him after the roach. You would take it in stride.

He left you a pair of shorts, thin and comfortable, and you placed those over the full-body outfit. It was a corset, not truly exposing you, but a small tease. You didn’t bother with a shirt—there didn’t seem to be one anyway.

And then you walked out, shaking your head at the absolute nerve of him. You fumbled a bit with your nails, forcing confidence to grow, but kept your attention downward.

A cup clattered. Your eyes flashed up. His adam’s apple was bobbing. You smiled.

“I didn’t think you’d actually wear them,” he laughed, covering his eyes and reaching for the jumper, throwing it in your vague direction.

You caught it, still grinning at your victory. You slid fabric on, letting it swallow you entirely. It smelled like him; warm and clean and comfortable. Then, you kept walking, meeting him opposite between the counter and the island, a foot of space between you. “Your fault.”

He looked at you, and a bit of that hunger lingered. You bit your lip, and more than a bit made his pupils blow.

Letting that confidence push you forward, you took a few steps, brushing against Draco as you walked to the couch, letting your hips sway more than necessary. You curled up against the arm, watching him curiously.

He looked like he was about to move, gulping audibly as he traced your body. He showered you in unabashed glances, down your legs and curves and to the sweater that was completely drowning you. _His_ sweater.

“Where’s the piano?” you asked, looking around.

“Guest bedroom—that’s our shared wall.” He nodded down a small hallway, but had no inclination to show you what was hidden there.

You smiled one more time, stretching out to watch him. Another gulp, hands tightening on the countertop, legs getting ready to move-

A whistle went off, loud and high-pitched. He groaned, and you laughed, letting him be teased. He knew what you wanted. And you knew what he wanted.

Draco turned to the kettle, actions so quick that you thought he might accidentally burn himself. He lifted it off the hot burner, filling two mugs with tea bags and sugar. He looked like he already knew how you took it.

And when he was done, he finally walked towards you, placing the steaming cups on the coffee table and taking a seat at the other end. He turned to you, not bothering with handing you the tea, the focus on other things.

“What kind of tea is it?” you asked innocently, like he was not staring at you as if he’d rather you wear nothing at all.

“Earl Grey,” he grunted, hand moving to run up your calf. Goosebumps erupted, making him smirk.

“My favorite,” you hummed. You repositioned yourself, the message clear.

Draco wasted no time, creeping forward so he was straddling your body. He pressed a kiss to your neck, and you gasped. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited. I’ve wanted.”

You grinned, fingers threading through his hair and lifting his head up. You smiled at his almost-black eyes, all pupils. “Enlighten me.”

And then he was kissing you. Hard and rough and gentle and soft. He chuckled as a small sound left your lips, opening for his tongue to take a swipe at the bottom. He retreated, however, choosing to savor the moment. His lips were perfect, fit to yours exactly. They spoke a million messages and a million notes slid underneath doors, hiding away from reality afterward.

They spoke of the game. The game of waiting. The game of wanting.

If there was one thing you had ever appreciated, it was an evening to yourself. Well, yourself and one other person. You registered a sound in another room. A cat pawing, a recognizable meow. Cosimo.

But you couldn’t comment on it. Because Draco was moving down your jaw, sucking and kissing and brushing lightly with his tongue as he found every sweet spot. You arched against him, and his hands slid up under the jumper on your body, feeling what laid underneath.

You focused on how perfect the evening became.

Tea, cat, silence.

One more neighbor.

A thought flitted through your head, and you brought his lips back to yours, not kissing—imprinting. “You finally got your cup of tea. The Earl Grey’s getting cold,” you whispered.

“Fuck the Earl Grey.”


End file.
